


Beautiful

by BehindBrokenWindows



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Pining, Pining John Watson, Regret, Sadness, Stupid Boys, True Love, beautiful sherlock, detective in love, just tell him John!, should have said something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 23:31:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10707426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BehindBrokenWindows/pseuds/BehindBrokenWindows
Summary: Sherlock agreed to babysit Rosie for the night while the Watsons are out of town.John isn't prepared for what he sees when he comes to pick Rosie up. Heartache follows.





	Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes they just make me so, so sad.

John was bounding up the stairs to his old flat in Baker Street two at a time. Mary was waiting in the car downstairs and was ready to go home. Sherlock had agreed to babysit Rosie for the night, as John and Mary had been out of town, ready for a quiet night in a hotel outside of London.

He was about to call Sherlock's name but clapped his mouth shut and stopped in his tracks just inside the old, well-known door.

He hadn't seen them at first, but now it seemed he couldn't look away.

It was early morning, yet, and the sun was peeking through a thin layer of white clouds that laid like a blanket over London.

Sherlock's hair looked deep golden where the sun licked it, but was otherwise its deep brown, curly self. He was sprawled on the couch in his usual fashion, wearing a deep blue shirt and a pair of nice, black trousers. He was sleeping, looking ten years younger, happy and careless. John had always wondered how Sherlock could look so statuesque, so graceful without even trying.

But that wasn't what had made John stop and stare, though the sight itself might be enough. But no, there was more. Rosie was sleeping soundlessly on Sherlock’s chest and one of his arms were wrapped protectively around her little body to keep her in place. One of her small hands was under her head and the fingertips of the other was caressing Sherlock’s long, graceful neck.

Something clutched uncomfortably around John's heart at the sight and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

As silent as he could, he walked over to the couch until he was looming over them. Sherlock’s nose scrunched up in his sleep and John’s knees buckled until he was on the floor by Sherlock’s head. He couldn’t have stayed upright if he wanted to.

Their calm, even breathing, in sync with each other, was the only sound in the room, and John was utterly transfixed by it. They were so comfortable with each other he wanted to cry. Instead, he just let his breath hitch and choked down on a sob.

Sherlock loved Rosie. John had seen it the first time Sherlock had held her. He’d looked reverent, almost dazed as he peered down at the fragile human in his arms. If he hadn’t been thoroughly mistaken, there had been tears in Sherlock’s eyes, though John couldn’t fathom why, because they weren’t happy tears.

If he could just stay here, in these rooms with the two people in front of him – John drew in a sharp breath. He couldn’t think like this. Mary was downstairs, waiting for him. And still he couldn't bring himself to wake up the sleeping pair in front of him.

He balled his hands into fists and dug his fingers into his hands painfully. Anything, anything at all to distract him from the way the feelings churned inside him.

He wanted to brush the curls away from Sherlock's face, imagined how soft they would feel between his fingers. He wanted to kiss the man awake and put his hands over the slim, violinist's fingers on his daughter's back. He wanted to share this moment with Sherlock, he wanted to share his whole damn life with Sherlock.

Sherlock made a content, humming moan in his sleep and John's gut contracted painfully. He put a hand out and caressed Rosie's head with a feather-light touch. They were so beautiful together, Sherlock and Rosie. He was so good with her, soft and caring and loving even though he pretended to not care. He was...

Mary was waiting, he had to stop this, stop it right now, before it was too late.

It was already too late. It had been too late for so long John couldn't even remember when it hadn't been.

His jaw tightened and he squared his shoulders, ever the soldier.

"Hey," he whispered, and cursed himself at the tremor in his voice. Tentatively, he put his hand halfway over Sherlock's, but just so that he could excuse his touch by saying he was just waking up Rosie.

"Sherlock," he called, without raising his voice. He let his hand move back and forth over Sherlock's hand and Rosie's back. Would he ever get over the fact that Sherlock's hands were as soft as Rosie's skin?

"Sherlock, you got to wake up." His voice was nothing but a warm whisper of air on the detective's skin, but the tremor in it was undeniable. Sherlock started to stir and John drew on all his courage. He brought his left arm up and brushed the brown and golden curls away from Sherlock's forehead, but once he touched he wanted more, he wanted to bury his hands in Sherlock’s hair, brush his fingers through the silky feel of it and listen as the man sighed at the feeling of it… he wanted so much more that he knew he could never have.

Sherlock’s eyes opened and he fixed his peculiar gaze on John’s teary eyes and he felt utterly ashamed. He had no right to be sad, no right. He had Rosie and he had Mary. It was Sherlock that was alone, that had no one. He felt the tears in his eyes, the heavy wetness that threatened to spill, but he didn’t let the drops fall even though he couldn’t force them away.

Sherlock understood. He understood everything, saw everything. John shook with it.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock rumbled, with a voice that was like dark chocolate slowly dripping off a spoon, but gruff with sleep. He smiled, genuinely, and if there was a hint of sadness in it, John knew why.

"Good morning." John choked around the word and drew his hand away from Sherlock’s silky locks, immediately feeling cold and empty. Sherlock's sigh was long and melancholy, but he sat up, cradling a slowly waking Rosie.

Together, they assembled all of Rosie's things, and when John had the bag over his shoulder, Sherlock picked the girl up from the chair she'd been occupying, and joined John in the doorway.

"Thank you," John said and forced his voice to remain stable. Sherlock handed him the baby as their eyes locked, and John deliberately put his hands over Sherlock's to grab her. It took just a heartbeat too long for Sherlock to let go.

"You don't want to come down and say hello to Mary?" John asked. Sherlock shuffled on his feet and looked down.

"Not today. I'll see you around, John."

Too late.


End file.
